


That Stupid Pony Plushie

by RyanTheJamesGuy



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Child Abuse, Domestic Violence, I have no idea what I'm doing oh god, a bit angsty., i guess??, kinda.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-29 07:16:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1002522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RyanTheJamesGuy/pseuds/RyanTheJamesGuy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael sat on the edge of his bed, hugging tightly and burying his face into a plush yellow pony.<br/>"Be a man! Ponies are for girls!" Michael remembered his dad shouting at him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Stupid Pony Plushie

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first fic that I've ever posted (welp)
> 
> I've never really written abuse fics so hopefully it's okay???
> 
> Also I have no idea what the rating or tags should be so I'm terribly sorry oh god

**Age 4**  
Michael hid in his room. He could hear things being thrown on the other side of the house. He remembered his mum telling him, "Sweetie, I want you to go to your room and lock your door and don't come out till I tell you, okay?"  
Michael always listened to his mom. He loved his mommy. His daddy was scary sometimes.  
Michael sat on the edge of his bed, hugging tightly and burying his face into a plush yellow pony.  
"Be a man! Ponies are for girls!" Michael remembered his dad shouting at him.  
Michael heard the yelling get louder, and crawled under his blanket.  
"Pease make it stop, Fluttas'y... Make mommy and daddy stop yelling..." Michael whispered to the little plushie. When it didn't answer him, tears stared rolling down his cheeks.  
"Please stop..."  
  
 **Age 8**  
Michael locked himself in the room again. It was the third time this week. He looked up at the pale yellow pony, sitting on the top shelf.  
"I don't need it." He thought.  
He could hear louder banging, followed by a few screams of swear words. Michael turned on his little tv in his room, switched it to his favourite cartoon, and turned the volume up loud. So loud he couldn't hear anything else. He didn't want to hear anything else.  Michael wanted to block it out. So he did. With Spongebob repeats up until at least 2:30am.  
  
 **Age 12**  
Michael stood outside the front door to his house. He'd heard the yells from the street corner.  His eyes stung; he knew his mom was getting hurt. He hated it. He opened the front door just as his father was leaning over a cowering figure, sporting light purple and yellow spots over face and arms. The colors vaguely reminded him of that childhood plush toy he was so fond of.  
"Leave her alone!" Michael's voice cracked, a lot more nervous than he thought.  
His father turned around and looked at him.  
"What the fuck did you say to me, boy?!" Michael's dad glared, letting go of Michael's mom.  
Michael lost his voice. He saw his dad take a step closer.  
"I said, what did you say to me? Fucking answer me you pathetic shit!!" He took another step closer to Michael.  
His dad grabbed him by the collar, and lifted him up.  
"Don't you fucking dare talk to your father like that." He hissed, and threw Michael into the glass table.  
  
 **Age 14**  
Michael hid in his room once again. He remembered the last time he intervened. He looked down at the nice big scar on his right arm from when he landed on a nice big shard of glass. It severed his muscle, and he still couldn't write for very long until it started hurting.  
Michael sighed, and laid back on his bed, with his My Little Pony plush under his head like a pillow. He had his headphones on, and his Nintendo above his head. He watched as little Link ran around on screen. He had already mastered this game, but the others he owned were in the living room, with his parents.  
So instead, he played, with the volume right up. He ignored the violent shakes of the house as best as he could, only letting out a single tear.  
  
 **Age 17**  
Michael had enough of it. He was sick and tired of his father treating him and his mother like shit.  
He puffed up his chest. He looked over to the small yellow pony laying on the shelf.. It stared back at him, almost eerily. He breathed out, unlocked his door, and took a step out. His eyes first landed on his mother. Broken, beaten, bruised on the ground. He rushed down to check her, when he heard a laugh behind him.  
"Just don't fucking learn, do ya? Do I have to teach you again little punk?" His father stepped towards Michael.  
But this time, Michael wasn't scared.  
"How about you just fuck off?" Michael said loudly to him.  
"What?" His dad asked, grinning slightly, "Little Mikey has a voice, care to speak up sonny?"  
"Leave my mother alone. Does it make you feel like a fucking man? Beating the shit out of a fragile woman?? Does that make you feel like a fucking king?" Michael was almost yelling.  
His father looked at him, his mouth slightly agape, smirking a bit.  
"You're a fucking bully, you know that? You pick on those smaller than you because you feel insecure about your fucking life!"  
"You fucking cunt. Don't you fucking talk to your father that!"  
"You're not my fucking father. I'm 17. I'm my own man. And as man of the house, I'm telling you to get out. Get out of this fucking house."  
"Or what? You gonna tell on me, Mikey Wikey?"  
"Don't. Fucking call me. Mikey Wikey."  
"You piece of shit. Come here." His father made a grab for him, but Michael shoved his hand away. His father stumbled a bit but gained his balance. He threw a punch at Michael, but He was faster.  He grabbed his arm and twisted it back. Michael's father was taken aback by the young man's strength. Michael shoved him to the floor and straddled his chest. Michael raised his fist and held it there.  
"Fucking do it. Don't be a coward."  
Michael hit him. Square in the nose. With a satisfying crunch.  
  
 **Age 21**  
Michael packed his last box, placing that rugged little pony plushie on top. That was the last of his stuff.  
"Are you gonna be okay, mom?" Michael asked the woman leaning against the doorframe.  
"I think... I'll be okay," she sighed, smiling a frail little smile, "I can't always have my little Mogar around to protect me from monsters."  
Michael smiled, "I'll always be here to protect you, mom." And he hugged her tight.  
His eyes wandered down to the plush toy on the box. It looked back up at him. A pain felt in his stomach as he remembered all the memories with this pony, and the last words his father ever said to him.  
"Just like your old man."  
  
 **Age 26**  
"Do you, Michael Vincent Jones, take this lovely Lindsay Elise Tuggey, to be your lovely wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, for better or worse, till death do you part?" The minister asked Michael. He stood there, choking on his own words. He looked at Lindsay, and knew exactly what to say.  
"Hell yeah I do." He smirked.  
He looked over at his mom in the front row. She was holding that stupid pony plushie from his childhood. He grinned at her, glad. He wouldn't want Fluttershy to miss the greatest moment of his life, would he?  
  
 **Age 28**  
"What do you mean you don't want kids?! We'd been planning this forever!"  
Michael looked up at her.  
"You knew I didn't want kids."  
"Yeah, but you'd never tell me why!"  
"Why does it matter??"  
"It just does! Why don't you want to be a father?!"  
"Because I don't want to end up like my father! I don't want to end up like my father, yelling and angry and hitting and bruises and blood and-" Michael couldn't finish. He'd realised he was yelling at her. He was turning into him already.  
The words haunted him again.  
"Just like your old man."  
Michael sat down and looked at his hands. Lindsay was shocked. She didn't know that. She always knew his dad was a deadbeat and a jerk, but he didn't know how much.  
"Michael..."  
"I can't, Linds... I can't be like my father... I can't..." He started tearing up slightly.  
"You will never be like your father. You just wanting to not be like him, is already not like him. You're not your father. You're my loving, gentle, brave, perfect Michael. You're not your father." Lindsay hugged him tight, "you're not your father."  
  
 **Age 30**  
Little Daniella cooed in her cot, reaching out for one of the strange dangling sparkly things on the mobile. She had light brown curls in little tufts on her head, freckles all over her pale face and bright green eyes. Michael couldn't stop staring at her, a goofy smile across his face.  
"Wassup, daddyo?" Lindsay grinned at Michael as she walked in with Daniella's bottle, and something behind her back. Michael didn't look away from the baby.  
"Isn't she beautiful...." He mumbled.  
"Well, she is half me." Lindsay joked, but Michael agreed.  
"Hey, I also found this old thing the other day, I gave it a wash, so it's clean." Lindsay held up something pale yellow and pink. Michael looked up. It was that stupid pony plushie. He took it from Lindsay, and looked at it for a second. All the memories, all the hurt, the pain, locked in this toy. He looked down at his daughter, who had seen the pony and started making grabby hands at it.  
Well, Michael thought, it's about time this poor toy needed some love and good memories. He placed the toy next to Daniella, and she immediately started trying to suck on it.  
"Hehe, she's trying to eat it. She's trying to eat that stupid pony plushie." Lindsay cooed at her daughter.  
"Yeah," Michael smiled, "Yeah she is."


End file.
